


Ew, Zombies

by GraarPlacemat



Series: Zombies Are Gross [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombies, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2653475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraarPlacemat/pseuds/GraarPlacemat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the prompt "York and North meet in the zombie apocalypse. North needs help."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ew, Zombies

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! Sorry I haven't been posting much lately. I've been getting into RvB, so I wanted to try a little characterization practice. North is the coolest and I hope I've done him justice!!

The moment he has the door open, there’s a sharp  _bang_ and he feels something shred the air on his left side - his bad side - and is forced to re-evaluate the safety of this recovery mission.

“Out,” barks the voice, deep and commanding, unusually steady. In his line of work, that’s unusual - typically, he hears desperation or denial or fury, not this obvious strength of will. He wonders once more whether he’s bitten off more than he can chew(No pun intended).

“It’s hardly fair, shooting at me the minute I show up,” he calls jokingly, testing the waters, knowing that if his usual partner were around he’d be rolling his eyes despite all his insistences that this was the best way to present oneself - non-threatening, unofficial, just here to help.

“I  _wasn’t_  shooting at you,” drawls the man who he still can’t see, somewhere on the other side of the door. “That was a warning. As in, stay away, we don’t want what you’re selling.”

He hears a small, childish voice say something unintelligible, and then the man, whoever he is, drops his tone. It sounds gentler now, reassuring, and he can’t quite tell what he’s saying.

“I can help,” he shouts, still not daring to come past the safety of the door, “Whatever he’s sick with, I can help. I have pills from the Feds. I’ve been distributing them all over.”

There is a moment of hesitation. He hears the small voice whisper something again. The other one mumbles an answer, and then there are footsteps.

The door is wrenched out of the way and he finds himself staring down the barrel of what is very clearly a sniper rifle. He wonders, a little stupidly, where the man could have gotten that.

And then he notices the man holding it. He’s younger than he’d expected, hardly older than him, and there’s a strange expression, almost sorrowful, darkening his clear blue eyes. He wears what looks to be old army fatigues, a possible explanation for his comparatively calm demeanor and the gun.

“I can help,” he assures him, slowly.

“Show me what you’ve got,” the man insists, and for the first time emotion - something like mourning - taints his voice . Like the kid was already most of the way to dead, and he only sought to verify that it was hopeless. It stops his quip about the man’s wording in its tracks.

“I’ll need some space,” he says instead, “It’s a big bag, especially if I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“He was bitten,” the man explains, choking on the last syllable.

He pauses for a moment, then sighs. “You can call me York,” he begins slowly.

The gun is lowered, forgotten. “You can’t help him?”

“It depends on the severity of the wound, and how long it’s been.”

“Three days,” he exhales. “But it’s just a scratch. Maybe…”

“How big?”

“Length of my thumbnail.”

He lets himself breathe at last. “Hey, I might be able to do something for that. Where is it?”

“His calf.”

“I can definitely do something for that. He might lose the leg, but I'll do my best. What’s his name? And yours?”

At long last, the man smiles. York notices that he has blond stubble blooming on his face.


End file.
